


Met a Bunny at a Bar

by rehliamonster



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Exhibitionism, F/M, Groping, Oneshot, PWP, Prompt Fill, Public Hand Jobs, Rated Mature because they don't actually fuck, drunk groping, ectocock, getting caught
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12650085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehliamonster/pseuds/rehliamonster
Summary: Sans and the drunk bunny get a bit handsy at Grillby's. Prompt fill.





	Met a Bunny at a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> This is a super old tumblr prompt fill, but I'm uploading it on AO3 for backup reasons with permission of the original prompter. 
> 
> The original prompt by lameandashamed: [nsfw] undertail fic prompt #050  
> skelebun. drunk bunny from grillbys hits on sans who is crunk. groping @ grillbys. eventual grinding and hangover.
> 
> I did only part of the prompt because reasons.

Sans isn’t drunk. He’s _not_. He’s absolutely, completely, 100% on top of things, peak point of his faculties and all that. So what if the ground’s swaying a little. So what if his field of vision is slightly fuzzy. It’s fine. It’s nothing.

“the… the point,” he says, speaking with the crisp enunciation of someone who has to try very hard to enunciate in the first place, “the point is. ‘s that…” He tries to remember what his point was, without success.

“Uh-huh,” says the bunny girl to his right, one hand under her chin, the other clasped around a glass of… something. What was her name again? He’s pretty sure she told him at some point, he keeps meeting her at Grillby’s and helps her home sometimes when she’s drunk, which is often, but he can’t remember it now. And when did he get into her booth, anyway?

“the point is… condiments,” he says, not entirely sure if that’s what the point actually was but rolling with it now that he’s there. It’s fine. It’s all fine, the point of the conversation is fine, him being in the booth is fine, the bunny girl is fine. Wait, what?

“Condiments?”

“uh… yeah. condiments.” He turns towards her in his seat and lifts the ketchup bottle that he hasn’t let go of despite all the glasses with other liquids that made their way through his hands this evening, accidentally squirting some over his fingers with the gesture. “condiments. they’re… they’re _good_. nobody get’s it. nobody. condiments. ‘s a damn shame, that’s the point.”

“Real big shame,” the bunny agrees with a serious nod.

One of her hands trails over the fabric of his shorts, right against the femur, sending a tingle of sensation through his body. Where did that come from? Didn’t she have both hands on the table? It’s a little bit hard to keep track of such things. Things like hands. Sans is confused. There’s a hand on his femur and ketchup on his fingers. He only knows how to deal with one of these things. Setting the ketchup bottle down in an overly careful manner, he sloppily licks the ketchup off his fingers, sucking on the joints to get everything out of the little nooks and crannies.

The bunny watches him intently through her half-closed eyelids. Her fingers trail higher until they reach the waistband of his shorts. She looks him dead in the eye when she pushes her hand into his pants.

“huh?” It’s maybe not the most intelligent sound he’s ever made.

“Shhhh,” the bunny girl says, giving him an exaggerated wink as her soft, furred fingers stroke over the bones of his pelvis. His hips buck forwards and something emerges from Sans’ throat, something caught halfway between a squeak and a groan, and the bunny giggles.

“You likin’ that?” She asks in a low voice, slurring the words together a little. The fingers of her other hand move playfully over his shirt, stroking the ribs underneath. The double sensation leaves him lightheaded.

“hhng.”

“Sansy,” she croons, speeding up her ministrations on his pelvic bone and flicking his symphysis. The fur on her fingers is so, so soft, tickling and teasing as she moves, and he feels heat spread through him, something soft with the promise of more, of something feral, of _fire_. He finds himself moaning without any conscious input and his eyes slide closed as he focuses entirely on that warmth and the feeling of her fingers rubbing him. Sweat forms on his skull and he can feel his grin slip into something dopey without being able to do anything about it. It’s too much. A prickling sensation is working its way from his pelvis through the rest of his bones and it feels amazing. The flare of his magic is muted by his clothes, but still visible through his shorts.

“Oooh, lookit what we’ve got here,” the bunny whispers, immediately adjusting her hand to accommodate this new development. The soft fur of her palm rubs against the length of his magical cock, shooting an electric spark of pleasure through him and he arches into her touch, his spine popping faintly under the sudden motion accompanied by a guttural groan.

She leans closer, until her face is hovering inches from his and he can feel her breath on his teeth. She smells like alcohol, sharp and sweet and sour all at once. Her upper body presses against his ribs, fleshy softness against hard bones, separated by nothing but the flimsy fabric of his shirt. Sans doesn’t know where to put his hands. He can’t decide if he wants to hold her waist or if he wants to try and squeeze her legs and so his hands hover dumbly somewhere in between, shaking slightly with the effort of keeping them there.

The bunny presses harder against him, working faster on his length and his hands twitch and fall on her legs after all, if solely because he’s too preoccupied by the overwhelming sensations in his groin to keep them up.

A hoarse, barking laugh abruptly shatters his focus on the pleasurable sensations and his eyes snap open. He’s met with the face of the bunny, wide-eyed and blushing, and the flicker of Grillby’s fire behind her.

Oh.

Ooops.

Grillby has his arms crossed and looks down on the two of them with displeasure written all over his featureless face. Sans has no idea how in the Underground that works, but there it is. A scowl from Grillby is unmistakeable. Over the top of the backrest of the booth, Doggo’s head is visible, smirking lewdly.

“uh. ‘s not what it looks like?” Sans tries, all former traces of enforced proper enunciation lost in the haze of pleasure and the sharp sting of embarrassment.

Grillby shakes his head and points to the door.

Walking out of the bar with the patron’s barking laughs in his back, leaning on the bunny girl because for some reason he can’t keep himself straight, the bulge in his shorts still clearly visible, is definitely one of Sans’ more awkward moments.


End file.
